Later at the party he looked elegant if outdated as he observed the people around him, and talked with the women who came and went. He felt of course envious, yet also slightly piteous, of the young, mainly because there seemed to be so many of them these days. It can’t have been easy for the ego, being one of so many like that: it was like that film Toy Story he had liked so much, with those little grinning aliens amassed in the speelgoedautomaat: “One of us!”

He felt of course envious, yet also slightly piteous, of the young … It can’t have been easy for the ego, being one of so many like that: it was like that film Toy Story he had liked so much, with those little grinning aliens amassed in the speelgoedautomaat: ‘One of us!’

Baummüller had written a critical commentary on the work of the author in residence and had the temerity to read from it large chunks of barely digestible Germanic prose. The prepositions fell awkwardly, reflexive pronouns sprang up unnecessarily; sometimes he could hear the whisper of the German sentence behind, “he made himself a niche,” “er hat sich eine Nische gemacht.” The indirectness of these Dubliners meant that in all his years teaching here Karl had probably never been corrected once; and as such, errors littered his conversational English like tiny sheep droppings.

Most of the students were clean and interested in literature but it was a young man he found himself talking to, with black curly hair and bloodshot eyes, stoned, no doubt. But he had an easy charm about him and was apparently named Peeky.

“Peeky? What kind of name is that?”

He said, ‘It’s a nickname, from school. Like Pikey with an ee.”

“Well, it’s ridiculous. Silly boy. Do you know what it means in Dutch?”

“What?”

He told him.

“Well, you know, I’m not taking Dutch.”

“Well! — The name’s farcical. Any well-centred Amsterdam girl will laugh you out of the room, unless you’re paying for her. What’s you real name?”

“Richard — ”

“Then that’s what I shall call you. Richard!”

“Richard!” he said, face aglitter.

“Tell me, Rich — who is that?”

She entered dramatically, such that it appeared each and every person there had been paid to ignore her entrance; and yet her silence was absolute; even a person right next to her would have heard nothing but the steps of her feet. She came across the floor, her forehead a canvas of makeup and pegged-up hair, above a face of diminutive, shadowy charm, with a bare throat and combination of suede jacket, dress and stockings, daring, exultant, triumphant; across the party towards them came Maria, eine Selbstinzenierung as you say in German. And Maria was worth going straight to the nearest dictionary to find out what it meant.

Sebastian said, “Who is that?”

“What?” answered Rich.

“The girl,” and he noticed, as she approached, that Rich too had taken up the same attitude to her, standing adjacent to him as if awaiting a recipient at an award ceremony.